Beneath the Church, etc.
By
S.L. Alderton
Beneath the Church
cold light pierces Jesus’ side
on its way to polish bone
empty eyes blink silent teeth clack
spell-songs into dust
nothing grows between marble
tiles no light except what filters
through Jesus’ wounds this crypt is
so still its silence is learning to speak
footsteps faint
on stairs worn smooth by time
a flesh-face opens wide
mute with wonder
what she seeks
is not here—instead
2000 weathered skulls turn
to greet their long-awaited audience
a silent song
etched so long in dust
sings of life--
half-remembered skin, blood, passion--
and death
in its simplicity
then, then, then, it crescendos
into a chorus of After
she stares unmoving
a song she never meant to hear
invades every nerve-ending
every sense consumed—cyclopean vision--
until at last laughter breaks
that awful silence—mirthless
apocalyptic laughter these skulls
remember and cannot voice
she stumbles back to light to
madness to murder to white
rooms to self-inflicted blindness
to death—and what comes After--
crypt’s silent chorus settles back
into another dusty century
tongueless mouths compose new
verses—and Jesus weeps red.
3 a.m.
scrape scrape scrape
slowly seeps past soporific senses
I wake
door ajar
unbroken blackness lies blank beyond
I wait
knock knock knock
soft fingers feeling out for fate
door breaks
pregnant pause
pulled upright by impenetrable pain
it takes
suck suck suck
No need to know why I cease to be
I wake
Nature
a deer on its hind legs
is not unnatural
even if the skin around its antlers
has receded until it appears
like a tree weighed down
by a miniscule root
ready to break free
and fill the sky
it is just the result
of a microscopic protein strand
which has folded in on itself
like a corkscrew spine
until it no longer resembles
a piece of deer
and this misshaping has merely
spread to every cell of the animal
until it no longer wants
what deer want
or fears what deer fear
until it cannot eat or drink
but only walk in aimless patterns
like the people who
hunt it
and though this has not been proven
if the people hunt it
the protein may enter their bloodstream
they may fold in on themselves
until they no longer resemble
hunters or humans
and then what will they be?
natural
of nature
shaped by nature
that is all we know
S.L. Alderton is a poet and librarian based in Denver, CO. Her work has appeared in 2River View, Twenty Bellows, and various independent zines. She enjoys writing about things she loves, like cemeteries, and things she fears, like centipedes.
By
S.L. Alderton
Beneath the Church
cold light pierces Jesus’ side
on its way to polish bone
empty eyes blink silent teeth clack
spell-songs into dust
nothing grows between marble
tiles no light except what filters
through Jesus’ wounds this crypt is
so still its silence is learning to speak
footsteps faint
on stairs worn smooth by time
a flesh-face opens wide
mute with wonder
what she seeks
is not here—instead
2000 weathered skulls turn
to greet their long-awaited audience
a silent song
etched so long in dust
sings of life--
half-remembered skin, blood, passion--
and death
in its simplicity
then, then, then, it crescendos
into a chorus of After
she stares unmoving
a song she never meant to hear
invades every nerve-ending
every sense consumed—cyclopean vision--
until at last laughter breaks
that awful silence—mirthless
apocalyptic laughter these skulls
remember and cannot voice
she stumbles back to light to
madness to murder to white
rooms to self-inflicted blindness
to death—and what comes After--
crypt’s silent chorus settles back
into another dusty century
tongueless mouths compose new
verses—and Jesus weeps red.
3 a.m.
scrape scrape scrape
slowly seeps past soporific senses
I wake
door ajar
unbroken blackness lies blank beyond
I wait
knock knock knock
soft fingers feeling out for fate
door breaks
pregnant pause
pulled upright by impenetrable pain
it takes
suck suck suck
No need to know why I cease to be
I wake
Nature
a deer on its hind legs
is not unnatural
even if the skin around its antlers
has receded until it appears
like a tree weighed down
by a miniscule root
ready to break free
and fill the sky
it is just the result
of a microscopic protein strand
which has folded in on itself
like a corkscrew spine
until it no longer resembles
a piece of deer
and this misshaping has merely
spread to every cell of the animal
until it no longer wants
what deer want
or fears what deer fear
until it cannot eat or drink
but only walk in aimless patterns
like the people who
hunt it
and though this has not been proven
if the people hunt it
the protein may enter their bloodstream
they may fold in on themselves
until they no longer resemble
hunters or humans
and then what will they be?
natural
of nature
shaped by nature
that is all we know
S.L. Alderton is a poet and librarian based in Denver, CO. Her work has appeared in 2River View, Twenty Bellows, and various independent zines. She enjoys writing about things she loves, like cemeteries, and things she fears, like centipedes.
